Poetry

September 28, 2015 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

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By

Harry Mills

 

 

LAP OF HONOR

 

 

Never asked permission, just born

from an extended womb, her balloon, she called it

blown as blossom across an old wilderness

reincarnated from a thousand year old mold

never tiring of an eternity

shuffling the pack, the laughing joker?

 

 

 

 

 

CELEBRATION

 

 

And, the clock kisses another dead face

as the last fireworks cease to exist

to finish their noisy work, and fade away

and leave the battlefield of drifting gunpowder

as a deserter

And, we kiss, as we always kiss, and wish

and lie with closed eyes

And, there will be no sleep again tonight

as the stench

from the half-hidden trench, starts to creep

along the last few remaining old year minutes

like goats eyes, opaque and awake

 

 

 

 

 

OR, IN THE STARS

 

 

 

And, it is written

if not in the stars

 

Then, maybe, on the back of a toilet door

next to a phone number of the local ten-bob bike

or, graffiti, exaggerated in a manhood extension

that, the ants will win

 

Remembering, a very aloof, smuggish frog

dripping his rouge ordinare, on the cafe sidewalk

whispering softly, some crap French prayer

‘To return back to the earth,

what the earth has gifted’

 

And, I know

and, they also know

 

That, one day I will feed them

I will be their returned wine

and, surrender the false throne of superiority

to close the book, my eyes, my death

to join the other inscriptions

 

On the back of a toilet door

or, in the stars

 

 

 

 

 

 

RELEASE

 

 

And, the condemned mouth can’t pray

the spoken words won’t stay

garbled laugh, as they steal from memory

don’t burn the books

the pen, once pointed as a poisoned arrow

never again to kill the assassin

hiden behind a tree of carved hearts

don’t burn the flags

waving warrior’s words that promised stars

now highway robbers stealing coats off the poor

caught in the brambles of new pages

don’t burn the children

 

 

 

 

 

SINKING

 

 

Dirty wet morning

of more unpaid bills, scribbled painted words

in diaries of circled dates

of tumbling numbers into moth-eaten months

of once a love

gone now, none now

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Harry Mills

Born 1944 in North Manchester, England.. failed every exam in the world, went to Art School (with Tony Prince), ran ad agencies as creative director or owner…divorced, kids, divorced, kids… divorced four times… lived in China, now in Philippines where I drink too much and write too little.

Harry’s vast array of poetic wisdom can be found at his Facebook page or via his blog.

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